


The Well-Worn Cliche Affair

by bitochondria



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Smut, Illya catches feelings, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Episode: s03e29 The Five Daughters Affair, Probably Not Actually Unrequited Love, excessive kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitochondria/pseuds/bitochondria
Summary: Casual affairs have rules, even if those rules are unspoken. When Napoleon breaks one of those rules and shatters its remaining pieces on a balcony, in the moonlight, Illya admits that he's been lying to himself. Sex, now with 100% Grade A SCHMALTZ* for all your reading pleasure. Let's pretend this is an attempt to look at how and why the dynamic of Napoleon and Illya's relationship has changed throughout Season 3 and into Season 4, and not just a bald-faced excuse to write Illya SCREAMING INTERNALLY ABOUT KISSING for 10 pages.*this is metaphorical schmaltz, let me be real clear on that.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	The Well-Worn Cliche Affair

The first time he kissed Napoleon Solo, it was such a  _ painfully _ hoary old cliche that Illya briefly contemplated requesting an out of state transfer.

They had been sleeping together for—what, a year?—but it was a casual thing. And casual things had unspoken rules: no jealousy, no meeting the in-laws, no pet names in bed, no  _ discussing _ the unspoken rules, and, for whatever reason, in their case, no kissing. 

Certainly not grabbing your partner by the lapels and pulling him out into the goddamn  _ starlight, _ under a soft April moon, kissing him at an UNCLE party where  _ anyone could have seen.  _ Certainly not kissing your partner so sweetly, at first, and then so hungrily, desperately,  _ seriously _ that he felt the strength go out of his legs on the step up to the smoker’s balcony.

Napoleon had always walked a fine line with the openness of his affection, but this felt like a step right over that line into jailable public indecency. And yet it  _ also _ felt like a homecoming; like the tearing down of a wall; like a long-forgotten promise finally fulfilled. Unable to pull away even if he had really wanted to, Illya couldn’t help but think:  _ he tastes like champagne. And pineapple rings.  _

Napoleon’s lips just barely brushed his once more as he leaned out of the kiss, and he looked at him with a pinkish, blurry expression, all lust and alcohol.

"You're coming home with me tonight," he sighed, intended as a question but spoken as a statement. He touched the tip of his nose to the tip of Illya’s nose and kissed him one more time, softly, like he was heading off to work and this was their daily ritual.

Illya stepped back very slightly, just so he wasn’t directly inside the burning circle of Napoleon’s lust. He placed his hands over Napoleon’s hands and removed them from his jacket, and then checked to make sure they still weren’t being watched. 

And then, like an idiot, he kissed him back, grabbing Napoleon from the back of his neck, his fingertips brushing through the short-cropped hair at his nape. His mouth was so soft and pliable and, _ fuck _ , so needy— that in an unthought, practically unnoticed gesture, Illya had at some point stepped back in towards his partner’s grasp. Napoleon’s hands were on his back, just below his shoulder blades, softly, like he was holding a man made of eggshells. His thighs were bruised up against Illya’s thighs, the evidence of their shared desire impossible to ignore, and nearly impossible not to strain against. Illya’s tongue brushed against Napoleon’s teeth and he could feel his friend’s grip tighten and his pelvis crush just that much closer.

They pulled away again and Napoleon bit his lower lip, looking a little contrite. He glanced sideways and then over his shoulder and coughed, “Probably shouldn’t have done that here.”

“Probably not,” Illya agreed, two fingers of his right hand interlaced with Napoleon’s. 

“Probably shouldn’t have done that at all,” he smiled, tight-lipped, closing his eyes and tilting his head with an apologetic little dip. 

Illya licked his lower lip before he spoke. “I don’t know about  _ that. _ ”

“How much longer do we have to spend at this party, do you think?”

“I guess that depends on how obvious you want it to be that we’re leaving together.”

Napoleon jammed his hands in his pockets and made another paranoid perusal of the party one floor down with his eyes. “You care more than I do, Illya.” He shrugged, just his shoulders. “You want to mingle for a little while longer, duck out separately, meet back at my place?”

His fingertips itched to touch Napoleon again. And it’s not like people probably didn’t already suspect, right? But he took a deep breath, and against his desires, agreed. “Alright. When?”

“I’m tired of eating cocktail weenies and pretending I care that Johnson in Engineering bought his kid a bunch of multi-colored Easter chickies, so the sooner the better. Forty-five minutes to an hour, give or take?”

“You take the forty five. I’ll take the hour.”

Napoleon nodded absentmindedly, checking their surroundings one more time. His eyebrows came down low over his eyes and his mouth crinkled up to one side in worry. He looked legitimately distressed.

“Illya.”

“Yes?”

The words came out so rapidly it might have been a German compound. “CanIkissyouonemoretime?”

Letting himself be stupid, Illya nodded. Napoleon’s mouth covered his and he could feel his eyelashes batting against his skin. His hands came up to Illya’s face and cupped his cheeks before they pulled away in a shared gasp. 

“Forty-five?” Napoleon grinned, any hint of shyness vanished.

“To an hour,” Illya smiled in return, only the tiniest bit hesitant. 

They broke off and Illya spent the next hour swanning around the party, pretending he cared about anything except Napoleon Solo’s tongue in his mouth. His neck and ears were hot all night, and he kept undoing and redoing his top button, torn between comfort and propriety. He tried to deduce what might have changed recently that would cause Napoleon to cross that unspoken line between them— had either of them been in particularly appalling danger, or had Napoleon recently been snubbed by a particularly attractive woman?— but nothing came to mind. Exploding apples and scientists crushing seawater down into gold dust hardly seemed like romantic catalysts. 

He knew, on a theoretical level, that he should be nervous. That a change like this meant something was going on with Napoleon, and that he should tread carefully lest he be swept up in a tidal wave of idiocy and lust. But in practice, he was as wound up as he was when he first figured out Napoleon wasn’t straight, and he couldn’t really be damned about the consequences.

When he did make it to Napoleon’s apartment, almost exactly an hour later, Napoleon greeted him not with any romantic display (nor, as Illya had half-expected, his naked body), but a cup of coffee. 

Illya looked down at the mug. “It’s after midnight.”

“Well,” Napoleon explained, sipping his own, “I’m a little tipsy, and I’d like to make it through the night.” He touched the rim of his mug to the rim of Illya’s. “Here’s to a terrible party, and some excellent company.”

Illya drank, mirroring Napoleon. He sat down on his boxy old couch. “It really  _ was _ a terrible party, wasn’t it?”

“Worse than usual,” Napoleon sighed, sitting beside his partner, no regard for personal space. “Who throws a cocktail party for  _ Easter _ ?” Immediately his hand was absentmindedly on his thigh, his thumb brushing small affectionate circles in Illya’s trousers.

“Usually more of a brunch affair, isn’t it?” Illya leaned his head back and gave Napoleon a look he hoped read as  _ amorous _ and not  _ besotted _ . 

Napoleon sipped his coffee. “With deviled eggs and little carrot cakes,” he grinned. 

“Children running around looking for baby bunnies,” Illya continued.

“Women in oversized hats.”

Illya drank a hearty draught of his coffee and then whistled the first two bars of  _ Easter Parade. _

Napoleon tapped the next line out on Illya’s leg, singing in a mellow, slightly lubricated lilt, “I’ll be all in clover, and when they look you over…”

“I’m…” Illya couldn’t help but laugh, quietly, barely a snort. “ _ Honored _ that you so want to see me in my Easter bonnet.”

Napoleon’s expression grew devious. “What, you don’t think we can pull off Astaire and Garland?”

“Napoleon,” Illya sighed, feeling uncharacteristically playful, “I’m a  _ friend _ of Dorothy. Not an impersonator.” 

Napoleon laughed earnestly, his eyes crinkling, and his lip curling up to reveal those charmingly prominent canines. Illya didn’t usually joke much about about being gay— a childhood under Nazi occupation and Soviet rule would do that, generally— but sometimes, alone with Napoleon, he could give voice to the heretical little lines that occasionally came into his head. For his part, Napoleon ate it up. He might appear straight to an outside observer, and he certainly did love women, but there was an undeniable part of Napoleon that longed to be recognized and accepted by other men like him. Illya saw how much he brightened every time he was included in that underground fraternity; so sometimes, when he was feeling a little mushy, he couldn’t help but indulge him.

Illya finished the rest of his coffee, but sat with the mug still in his lap. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon followed suit, looking up from the mug with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow as he finished gulping.

He didn’t really want to ask, but he had to. He didn’t really want or need an answer. But he did need Napoleon to be  _ aware _ that he had made a peculiar choice tonight, and that he wasn’t just blindly following his lead. He took a deep breath. “Why did you kiss me tonight?” 

Napoleon took Illya’s empty mug from his hand and placed both on the coffee table. He looked Illya directly in the eye. One corner of his mouth veered upwards. “Because you needed to be kissed, of course.” 

“I did?” Illya furrowed his brows in false consternation. 

“You were  _ begging _ to be kissed.” Napoleon’s lips were smiling, but his eyes were all fire. 

Illya could feel Napoleon’s gaze, knife-twistingly ardent, on his eyes, and then his cheeks, and then his mouth. The set of his body— not tense, but ready beneath a veneer of cozy placidity— told Illya that he wanted  _ badly _ to make a move, but would wait until they were on the same page. 

His voice grew low with longing and honesty. “Because I was tired of pretending this wasn’t what I wanted.” That strange shyness Illya had seen for a moment at the party crept back into his eyes, and he looked down at his legs. “If… that’s also what you want.”

It felt like they were negotiating a marriage. They so rarely spoke of the conditions of their arrangement that even bringing it up felt like a transgression. Or an admission. 

Waiting for a response, Napoleon met Illya’s gaze. 

It didn’t matter if it was an admission, Illya realized. 

He grabbed Napoleon’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, maintaining eye contact far longer than was technically comfortable. He couldn’t say the words. But he knew Napoleon could hear him, anyway. 

Napoleon crushed his fingers into Illya’s hair and pressed their mouths together aggressively, almost clumsily. Illya leaned forward into the kiss, the taste of coffee in his partner’s mouth warm and dark like his eyes and hair. They pulled each other closer, hands on necks and chests and in hair, noses bonking, until Illya was half-straddling Napoleon’s leg. 

Usually that would be the cue for clothes to start flying, but instead, Illya focused on the sounds Napoleon was making as they kissed. His breath kept catching every time they parted, and each time they came back together he made a little noise somewhere between a moan and a satisfied purr. He wrapped one hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck and the other in his tie, straining for leverage as Napoleon sucked on his lower lip, his hands on the small of Illya’s back. Napoleon pulled him just a little bit closer, so his cock was pressing hard against Napoleon’s thigh, and he plunged his tongue into his partner’s mouth, feeling the heat between them growing at both points. 

After making a particularly undignified noise, Napoleon pulled away slightly, and with a performative wolfishness, whispered, “Remind me next time I seduce you that kissing should be on the table from day one.”

Illya grunted laughter, and pulled Napoleon’s mouth to his once more. He used his teeth a little. Napoleon didn’t seem to mind.

“You seduced me, did you?” Illya growled in return, their faces still close enough that he could feel Napoleon’s shallow, agitated breathing. “I seem to remember events a little differently.” 

Napoleon pressed his forehead and nose to Illya’s, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You don’t remember all the  _ wooing _ I did? The late night calls, the flowers, the paeans to your family to let me have you?” 

This was rapidly becoming a legitimate romantic scenario. If they kept this up, it would be…  _ difficult _ to feign objectivity in their relationship going forward. Illya needed to put the brakes on this kind of  _ dating _ talk, because that’s not what they were doing— not what they had ever been doing. They were just good friends who happened to get each other off sometimes, he reminded himself. 

And yet, the words that came out of his mouth were, in an affected and terrible American accent, “But you told me you didn’t  _ want _ to go steady, darling.” 

Napoleon grinned and pulled Illya all the way on top of him, his thighs between Illya’s, Illya kneeling on the couch. He dragged him down into another excessively tender kiss, sighing and smiling into his mouth. Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon’s neck and pressed himself into ever closer contact, the soft heat of Napoleon’s reddening lips on his own obliterating any chance he had at logic and reasoning. They stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time, bodies and mouths together, trying every previously forbidden way to touch and explore each other. At some point, Napoleon shifted at a right angle and slid down the couch, positioning himself fully underneath Illya. Like inexperienced (but extremely horny) teenagers, they let the kissing and the weight of each other’s bodies serve as a metaphor for the actual act; each time Napoleon’s tongue pushed against his, each time his hand lingered a little too long on his still-trousered rear end, a jolt went through Illya’s cock. Animal lust told him to just grind up against Napoleon until they both came like this, sticky and oversexed, but another part of him willed him to remain as still as possible, prolonging this unbelievable indulgence as long as it could be prolonged.

Eventually, Napoleon’s hands came to rest on his cheeks and jaw, and he could feel himself being softly pushed away from their kiss. He sat up.

Napoleon ran his knuckles against Illya’s jaw. “My dear, if you don’t fuck me soon, I’m complaining to the manager.” 

For a moment, Illya contemplated who ‘the manager’ would be in this situation. Their landlord? Waverley? ...Brezhnev? And then he proceeded to start unbuttoning his shirt. 

Napoleon pulled Illya’s hands off his own buttons and brought them down to the strained zipper of his pants. 

“What’s the rush?” Illya shrugged, brushing his fingertips against Napoleon’s erection, but not freeing it. “We caffeinated ourselves for a reason, correct?” He smiled, somewhere between a grin and a bitten lip. 

Napoleon glared at him, and then sat up. He practically lifted Illya off the couch. “Bedroom?” 

“Bedroom.” 

By the time they made it to Napoleon’s bed, Illya’s button down and belt were off, and his pants were halfway undone. He sat down on the edge of the bed and Napoleon straddled his legs, pulling his undershirt untucked and over his blonde head. He threw his own clothes to the floor a moment later, somehow already down to just his pants. He tilted his chin in a little, looking at Illya from below his eyelashes. On a girl— and perhaps on a different man— it would have been coy. A come-hither-but-not-too-fast sort of look, an enticement for the other party to do the pursuing. But on Napoleon, with his mouth quirked up to one side, it was raw, fuck-me-baby lust. Illya grabbed him by the chin and kissed him again, happy to take him up on that offer.

Not long after they had started sleeping together, Illya had discovered a charming and delightful thing about Napoleon Solo, one which had surprised him immensely: that when he was of a certain mind, he could be an ardently committed and exceptionally enthusiastic bottom. Illya had sort of assumed that, considering his history with women, and his playboy reputation, Napoleon would be one of those skittish queer men who would  _ fuck _ other men, but shy away from anything else lest they be painted with the malignant brush of the  _ femme _ — the  _ nancy _ — the rusty old  _ screaming queen _ stereotype. As it turned out, Napoleon was instead a cheerful, carefree, and versatile lover; he just wanted to have a good time, and it really didn’t matter how he got there. He had told Illya once that, in his travels, he had met a handful of women who had been happy to oblige him that pleasure, as well; he seemed to have absolutely no frame of reference for whether that might even be an uncommon choice between a man and a woman.

Without breaking their hard-won kiss, Napoleon pushed Illya to the bed and pulled his pants down past his own thighs to Illya’s knees. He couldn’t get them off farther than that without removing Illya’s tongue from his mouth, so he didn’t. Illya grabbed the back of his neck and rolled him over, wriggling his pants the rest of the way off and kicking them off onto the floor. He brought his free hand to the front of Napoleon’s briefs and began, very softly, stroking him through the fabric. Napoleon moaned into his mouth and Illya tightened his grip in the hair at the back of his neck.

Eventually Napoleon batted Illya’s hand away from his crotch and pulled his underwear off, squirming beneath his partner to set his cock free. Illya let him struggle, pressing his tongue hard against Napoleon’s. Illya slid his own underwear partially off with one free hand, just enough so he could press his bare erection against Napoleon’s. Hot, smooth, and iron-bar hard, they quickly fell into a rhythm rubbing against each other, precum slick between them. 

Illya easily could have lost himself in this frantic grind, but then Napoleon tapped him on the forehead. 

A little forlornly, he pulled his head back and softly kissed Illya on the space between his lower lip and his chin. He brushed Illya’s hair behind his ear. “I’m starting to think our prior decision not to neck might have been a health and safety one. I fear now that we’ve started, we may never be able to stop.” 

Illya shrugged. “One of us will probably want to eat something at some point.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows went up, roguishly. “Or use our mouths for  _ other things _ .” 

“Charming,” Illya sighed. 

Napoleon looked up at him with rumpled, blurry hunger, grinning like he had just bested someone at poker. His lips were kiss-bruised, red and a little swollen, and his body was like fire between Illya’s legs. Some days, Illya questioned  _ why _ exactly he was attracted to his partner, who was a frankly ridiculous human being, but there were no questions during moments like these. There was a reason Napoleon could convince just about anyone to get into bed with him.

Illya reached across the bed and managed to grasp the handle of Napoleon’s beside table drawer with his fingertips. He grabbed for the tube of gel lubricant Napoleon had, right in plain sight next to the alka seltzer tablets, half-read novel, and comb residing in the drawer, and then finished removing his half-shed underwear. He kissed Napoleon’s throat and squeezed the tube out over his fingers.

“About time,” Napoleon grumbled. Illya ignored him.

The first time Napoleon had pulled out a tube of  _ ultrasound jelly _ in the middle of sex, Illya had thought he might be featuring on an X-rated segment of Candid Camera. But he had insisted that the boys in R&D were just helping him procure something he would otherwise need a prescription for, and to try it before passing judgement. Naked and quite visibly aroused, he had argued that saccharin had been discovered by someone researching coal tar, but that didn’t make it any less useful for sweetening coffee. Illya had rolled his eyes and agreed to try it. 

He didn’t love how much  _ colder _ it started than vaseline, but he certainly enjoyed the sensations it provided otherwise. 

Illya slid his forefingers together, coating and warming them. He leaned down and very softly kissed the head of Napoleon’s very engorged, very excited penis. Napoleon needed no more coaxing than that, spreading his legs and lifting his hips for Illya’s access.

He ran the tip of his finger in a delicate circle over Napoleon’s asshole, and immediately Napoleon let his head fall back on the bed, breathing out heavily. He grabbed Illya’s wrist and pressed his fingers against him.

“You’re in a hurry tonight, Napoleon.” Illya continued touching feather-light. “You have somewhere to be after this?” He blinked slowly, smiling and making overlong eye contact as he pushed the tip of one finger inside.

Napoleon hitched his hips slightly. 

“Yes,” he breathed, steadying his voice. “I have an important meeting to go to at three in the morning.  _ Oh _ ,” he gasped. Illya slid his finger inside a little deeper, and then slid it partway out again. He tested the same motion, very slowly, twice more. Napoleon’s cock twitched. “What about you,” he laughed, a little shaky, “are you trying to set a record?” 

Illya squirted more gel onto his middle and index finger and onto the cleft of Napoleon’s ass. He pulled his one finger out, rubbed the lubricant against his entrance, and pressed two inside in its place. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Napoleon growled, tensing for just a moment before relaxing and softening into Illya’s touch. “For— f. For ‘longest time spent on foreplay in one—  _ god _ — evening?’”

“No,” Illya hummed, easily slipping his digits in and out of his friend. “I’m going for ‘Longest Time Anyone Has Ever Made Napoleon Solo Wait to Ejaculate.’” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Napoleon snorted, his breath catching as Illya paused for a moment, letting the stretch be the only sensation, and then plunged his fingers back inside. 

Dirty talk wasn’t really part of Illya’s repertoire ( _ who said ‘ejaculate’ in the middle of fingering someone? Nothing sexier than being incredibly clinical _ , he chided himself). He tended to be fairly quiet during sex, except for the witty repartee that usually carried over from flirting to fucking. He could manage that, because there was still something a little cerebral about it. Napoleon was the one who gave himself over to swearing and moaning and muttering obscenity. 

But Napoleon’s heightened level of sensitivity tonight was hard not to comment on. Illya breathed in through his nose and tried a line he couldn’t quite believe was coming out of his own mouth.

“Although,” he started, looking at Napoleon’s dick instead of his eyes, “I think I could probably make you come just like this, couldn’t I?”

At that Napoleon made a strained noise halfways between a laugh and a moan. He reached up and grabbed Illya’s chin, tilting his face so their gazes met. His brown eyes were steady despite their glassiness. “Easily.” 

He smiled at Illya so genuinely, so freely, that Illya’s stomach rolled. He brushed the hair off his face with his clean hand and laughed, awkwardly, feeling his face go red. 

How was  _ he _ the one who was flustered in this situation? 

“D’you—” He paused, words suddenly inaccessible. “Are you… ready?” 

Napoleon fluttered his eyelids, comically impatient. “Yes,  _ darling _ .”

Illya pulled his fingers out and slicked what was left onto his cock, then squirted more lubricant into his open palm. He slid his hand up and down his length and few times, wiped his hand on a tissue, and hoisted Napoleon’s hips up on his legs. 

“Thank  _ god _ ,” Napoleon sighed, still playing the game. 

“You know, I  _ could _ leave you like this,” Illya grumbled, lying so blatantly he couldn’t help but smirk. 

“No you couldn’t,” Napoleon chided, calling his very obvious bluff. 

Illya positioned himself for ease of entry, and pressed his cock to Napoleon, who was quite warm and pliable. He pushed past the tightness, slowly, Napoleon’s eyes closing and his breath coming in shallow. He tilted Napoleon’s hips up a little more, and Napoleon swung one leg up onto his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” Napoleon muttered as Illya pulled him up fully onto his cock. His legs twitched, and Illya could feel him tighten around him. The warmth of him was incredible. “God. Illya.” 

And thus began Napoleon’s traditional stream of obscene nonsense; Illya rocked his hips against his partner’s ass, barely thrusting, and Napoleon swore and gasped and breathed like he had been running for days. No matter what role he played, he was  _ always _ a mess during sex. Even when he was in complete control, he’d still be shuddering and spitting creative things like  _ fuck-goddamn-jesus-fuck  _ as he went. Illya couldn’t imagine letting himself go like that. 

Illya slid out of Napoleon to his head, and then thrust back in to the hilt. Precum oozed from Napoleon’s cock. Illya did it again, watching his partner turn to incoherent mush beneath him. Napoleon’s body softened and clenched against him with each movement, and then he was the one doing the thrusting, grinding his ass up and down the length of Illya’s erection. 

All the while, muttering: “God, fuck, I— Illya, darling— please, don’t stop— Illya—” 

He was going to  _ have _ to stop, soon, if Napoleon didn’t keep groaning and gyrating.

“Napoleon,” Illya interrupted, voice surprisingly hoarse. 

Napoleon opened his eyes, glassy and half-lidded.

“Can I move you a little?”

“Of course,” Napoleon nodded. He probably would have said yes to anything at this point, but that wasn’t the point. 

Illya grabbed Napoleon by the hips and brought him as close as they could possibly be, but moved his legs so they were around his waist and back instead of on his shoulders. He then repositioned himself, hands flat on the bed, and leaned in to kiss Napoleon’s wonderful, filthy mouth. 

Napoleon moaned loudly, their teeth smacking together a little. Illya pulled his hips back and then, in time with his tongue, pressed deeply into him with one quick, silky motion. If their mouths hadn’t been pinned together, Napoleon would have been yelling. Instead, he made unbelievable muffled noises into Illya’s mouth, and Illya felt his cock twitching inside him. Kissing him with abandon, tongue pressing in and out of his mouth, cock sliding in and out of his willing body, Illya felt like every part of him was on fire. 

He wanted to throw everything to the wind and just thrust until he spent himself, but it would be selfish to do so alone. He reached for Napoleon’s cock, but Napoleon grabbed his wrist before he could do any more than run a careful finger down its length. He moved Illya’s hand to his hip instead. His tongue ran a teasing circle against Illya’s tongue, as if to say, ‘I told you what I wanted already.’

Well. That answered that question. 

Illya had never really been able to come hands-free, but sometimes Napoleon  _ could _ , if he was excited enough. He really did let himself go so much more easily— Illya couldn’t imagine being  _ quite _ that uninhibited. 

But it gave him the permission to do what he wanted to do, which was fuck his partner silly. He let his brain turn off just a little bit, getting into a fast, tight rhythm of thrusting and kissing and sucking on his partner’s lips. Napoleon gasped and moaned into his mouth, and then he got very quiet and pliable for a brief moment before his hips bucked wildly into Illya’s, his asshole twitching and tightening around his cock, his muffled moans becoming muffled yelps. Illya felt Napoleon’s mouth grow slack as hot cum splattered his chest, and he plunged into him one more time, his own cock pulsing at the heat and wetness at both points of connection between their bodies. He kissed and fucked Napoleon as he came inside him, the warmth and slipperiness increasing with each desperate thrust. 

Once his legs stopped shaking, Illya let his lips brush Napoleon’s one more in gentle, smiling departure. He and Napoleon lay nose to nose, breathing heavy, still together. They were both a disheveled, sticky mess. 

Looking at Napoleon’s eyes, hearth brown and heart-breakingly earnest, Illya thought to himself,  _ how does anyone who sleeps with this beautiful fool not immediately fall completely in love with him _ .

Which is to say, he realized with sudden, painful clarity, that the dam had broken, and that he had finally admitted his feelings to himself. 

He was in love with Napoleon. He had been in love with him for more than a year. 

Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya’s neck, kissing the space where his ear met his cheek. He seemed content to remain on his back, legs wrapped, Illya still inside him. 

“That, my dear,” he purred into Illya’s ear, breaking one of their other taboos for at least the third time tonight, “was a hell of an epilogue to an Easter party.”

Illya kissed his neck in return. “You think anywhere is open that we could go get some deviled eggs and carrot cake?”

Napoleon laughed, pressing his cheek into Illya and squeezing him tighter. “I actually could go for some breakfast.” He paused. “Second dinner?” Nuzzling into Illya’s hair he sighed, blissfully. “Or I could just cook us up some eggs here and we could do this again in an hour or so.” 

Illya made a noncommittal noise into Napoleon’s skin. What he  _ actually _ wanted to do was stay in this bed forever, Napoleon’s arms and legs wrapped around him. “What about your three-o’-clock meeting?” 

“Hardly more important than eggs,” Napoleon grinned. Illya could feel him smiling against him. 

Dizzy and overwhelmed and fully infatuated, Illya swallowed. The wall of false objectivity he had carefully constructed had been torn down completely, revealed for the charlatan’s curtain it really was. Every word Napoleon spoke was another reason to love him; every touch and smile another piece of evidence in a case that had been mounting against Illya since the first time Napoleon had grinned that crooked grin at him. He wanted to grab Napoleon around the shoulders and mutter admissions of love into his neck and ears. He wanted to run away, as far as he could, and forget any of this had ever happened. He felt like he might burst into tears, or hysterical, absurdist laughter at any moment. He felt like every defense he had ever constructed for himself had been swept away, leaving him completely bare in front of this cheeky American philanderer. 

Well. 

_ Metaphorically _ bare. 

He took a deep breath and willed himself to composure. He had learned to pretend he didn’t have these feelings. He could learn to live with them. 

“Can I pull out?”

“If you must,” Napoleon teased, but he released his grip and let his head flop back on the bed. 

Illya lifted Napoleon from the small of his back as he extricated himself from inside him and between his legs. “Well, I suspect we’d get kicked out of the diner if we go in like this.”

“Depends on the diner,” Napoleon shrugged, reaching for the tissues. 

“Frankly,” Illya proffered, accepting a tissue from Napoleon, “That sounds like a very serious health code violation.”

Napoleon rolled himself off the bed carefully. “I hear it’s all the rage out on the west coast these days— combination vegetarian restaurants and sex parlors.” 

“You know the Enquirer isn’t a reputable news source, right?” 

Shuffling to the bathroom, Napoleon snorted. “But they told me  _ Soviet Spies _ are right here in America, Illya. How can I keep abreast of current events otherwise?”

The door shut behind him and Illya was left chuckling to himself. He started tidying up after them, reclaiming his clothing and incautiously folding Napoleon’s. As he was rebuttoning his shirt, Napoleon called from the bathroom. 

“So do you want to stay close, or go out to the place in Astoria?”

The 24-hour diner in Astoria was a bit of a hike, particularly considering the hour and his relative feelings of wooziness, but their coffee didn’t taste like the bottom of a shoe, and they usually had better flavors of pie. 

“If you’re up for the drive…” 

“Good choice,” Napoleon agreed, bursting out of the bathroom, still nude, hair askew. “You drive, I’ll take a nap in the passenger’s seat.” 

“Better than taking a nap in the driver’s seat,” Illya suggested. Napoleon grabbed him by the waist on the way to the pile of clothes on the bed, and kissed him, hard, one more time for good measure.

Fingers in Illya’s belt loop, nose to nose, Napoleon blinked with slow satisfaction. “Every time I do that, a  _ year _ is added to my life.” 

Illya felt his cheeks go hot. He tried to turn it into a joke. “What, are you stealing my life force or something?”

Napoleon kissed him again in answer, softer this time. “No. It just makes me happy. I’m going to kiss you a hundred times a day, every day.” He unraveled his fingers from Illya’s pants and gave him a surprisingly firm pat on the ass. “Now let’s go get some eggs.”

“And carrot cake,” Illya muttered, the color of red velvet. And he realized that every time he was  _ ever _ going to kiss Napoleon Solo, it was going to be a hoary old cliche. Because every time Napoleon kissed him, he would come anew to the realization that he was in love. And because every time Napoleon kissed him, he would briefly contemplate getting the first flight out, to run off somewhere his feelings couldn’t find him. 

Because it  _ was _ a cliche— in unrequited love with his best friend. Head over heels for a charming American spy. A calculating, intelligent agent entirely undone by a kiss from a brown-eyed boy. His forefathers had to be incredibly disappointed in him, so easily swayed was he by that most American of traditions,  _ schmaltz _ . 

He sighed. Such was his lot. 

“Napoleon, if every time we kiss you add a year to your life, and you want to do it seven hundred times in a week, you’ll be functionally immortal in under a month.”

Napoleon buttoned his pants, and threw a sweater on over his undershirt. He beckoned towards the door. 

“Maybe they’ll put  _ me _ in the Enquirer, next.” 

“ _ ‘Local Lazarus Discovered,’” _ Illya snorted, checking his pockets for car keys. 

“ _ ‘Fountain of Youth Uncovered: Secret to Eternal Life inside!’ _ ” 

“ _ ‘Soviet Smooches Key to Longevity,’ _ say top experts.”

He locked the door behind them as they stepped into the hall. “Well there you go making it about yourself again, Illya. Not every tabloid needs to be about Russian spies, you know.” 

Napoleon grabbed Illya’s hand and interlaced their fingers, still smiling to himself. 

And he didn’t let go the whole way to the diner.

And Illya let himself look forward to a promise of a hundred kisses every day. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I told you there would be schmaltz. 
> 
> Also this was 100% going to be a Christmas fic before I realized there was no way for there to be a Christmas party anywhere near the end of Season 3, and that setting this big of a Relationship Upgrade near The Jingle Bells Affair didn't made sense, either. So, apparently Waverley throws Easter parties now. THAT'S FINE IT GAVE ME AN EXCUSE TO MAKE A FRIEND OF DOROTHY JOKE, SO ALL IS WELL. 
> 
> It's cool, boys. Pesach was at the end of April in 1967, so you can use all that schmaltz in a week or two. <3


End file.
